


In Hopes You're on the Other Side

by MissBeiBauble



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Feels, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Music, Post-Episode 5, vigilante!Joker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14374596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBeiBauble/pseuds/MissBeiBauble
Summary: A drabble of John's life in Arkham post Episode 5: Same Stitch, vigilante route.In short: John misses Bruce. Very, very much.





	In Hopes You're on the Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> Intended to be read under whatever relationship you feel is between our two bois. The title of the fic and italicized phrases come directly from _Talking to the Moon_ by Bruno Mars. Listened to this beautiful song the other day and the fic pretty much wrote itself from there; would recommend giving it a listen before you read to get yourself in the mood for some major feels. ;_; 
> 
> Really do hope you enjoy!

_I know you’re somewhere out there, somewhere far away…_

Watching the rain made him feel cold inside. But of course, he wasn’t staring out the window to watch the incessant water droplets fly by in slants. His room was cold enough already. The only reason he ever bothered to even glance out that sad little window was to see the moon. 

Among all the jumbled bits and pieces of information he had no memory of learning, there was a story. It was fractured, but what stuck – what resurfaced when the cards had all fallen and he was left alone to mourn them – was that two people who had been separated, could still be together. They shared the moon; watched it, wept to it…spoke to it. The moon was the piece of them the other could still reach, despite the distance, despite the rupture between them. Nothing could take that away from them. Not even betrayal.

He found himself grasping at the story’s message like a lifeline. Ever since they put him back here, he looked for the moon, every night. Since he’d lost the right to look for _him_. 

_…I want you back…_

_…I want you back…_

He began to believe he never had the right to look for him. Maybe that’s why things had gone so, so wrong.

_My neighbors think I’m crazy, but they don’t understand…_

He’d liked to have thought he’d had a modicum of respect from his fellow Arkham residents, before he was released. Living here as long as he had, longer than Zsasz, much longer than Sane Lewis, so long he might as well have been born within these padded walls…it gave him a sort of sense of authority. He was confident in his ability to play about with the frayed strings of every inmate (and most guards) that he come into contact with. He was practically untouchable.

‘Was’, being the operative word.

He didn’t know how, but his nightly chats had become the latest source of mutters and snickers for the more coherent of his peers. A loose-lipped guard, most likely. Perhaps it was because of the respect he once held that his return (his failure) was making his life even more of a living hell. He no longer looked forward to rec room time, to put the situation mildly.

_…you’re all I have…_

The bitter irony of being outcast by the city’s worst outcasts was not lost on him. For the better, he would tell himself. Their company was the last he ever wanted now.

_…you’re all I have._

_At night when the stars light up my room…_

He wished not for the first time that his bed faced the window. At the angle it was in, he didn’t have full view of it, and he liked to be able to see the face of the person he was talking to. He was a watcher, after all. So he’d taken to forming a makeshift little nest out of his thin bed sheets and pillow right in front of that wonderful window.

It was the first clear night in too long. 

_…I sit by myself, talking to the moon…_

He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t help his hands from animating the memories he recounted aloud. He liked seeing the moonlight on their pale skin, as though it were seeping into him, becoming a part of him. He started to look forward to the day it overtook him completely and they were indistinguishable; the moon and him, him and the moon…

_…trying to get to you…_

Sometimes the thought occurred to him that other people who’d been separated were trying to reach each other through the moon, too. It was like a celestial operator. He hoped the fact wouldn’t interfere with his connection. But he was almost certain it didn’t work like that. 

_…in hopes you’re on the other side, talking to me too…_

He tried so hard not think of _him_ during the day. He just couldn’t handle the swell of several different emotions his name drew in him. Dr. Leland says he becomes _agitated_ , if he dwells on the past, and strongly advised him against doing so.

But when bedtime arrives, and the lights go out, and he sees that lovely moon just waiting for him…well. Somehow he can almost feel _him_ sitting there, quietly watching him with that tiny smile, nodding along to his anecdotes and observations, his daily recaps, the ideas that occupy his mind when staring at the wall loses its charm. And then he listens for _his_ responses and thoughts, and can almost hear his teasing, comforting voice warm up the little space and give it the life it sorely lacks.

_…or am I a fool, who sits alone…talking to the moon._

The days where he couldn’t avoid taking the little white pills were the worst. They made his thoughts turn inwards, deeper than he ever liked to go, because that’s where he buried the ugliest doubts. Those nights he wouldn’t bother sitting on the hard floor just to stare out a barred window at a clouded white ball. 

He’d still talk – he couldn’t sleep anyway – but his words were bitter and accusing. He could say those words then because it was those times that he faced reality and knew that his bizarre _coping mechanism_ , as Leland branded it, was deserving of all the insults he took during the day. He knew the only person listening to him was the apathetic security guard outside his door. He knew this, and so had no trouble saying things he’d never truly want to say to _him_. 

As if he’d ever be given the chance to do so anyway.

_Do you ever hear me calling…?_

He lay curled up on his bed, cradling his left hand, tracing the jagged scar that was mirrored on both sides of his palm. He’d been looking forward to the full moon tonight, but thanks to Arnold – or more accurately, Arnold’s little hand puppet pal – he lost control of himself in the rec room earlier and rather forcibly shut something that should’ve just stayed shut. Needless to say, he was now nursing a bloody nose and heavily drugged. It was so hard, so very hard to keep his eyes open, but he didn’t want to go a single evening without at least wishing _him_ a good night. That would be rude. 

He hoped his message was clear enough, with his tongue as heavy as it was.

_‘Cause every night, I’m talking to the moon…_

Dr. Leland had made the comment that he was probably doing a better job of therapy than she was for him, at this point. He didn’t know whether to consider that a good thing or a bad thing. Then decided it didn’t really matter. He’d keep on regardless. It was his only reason to hold on now; to what, he didn’t know, either. He just needed to hold on or he’d sink back to what he was before…before. And among many other things, he didn’t want that. 

_…still trying to get to you…_

He didn’t think _he_ wanted that, either. He hoped with everything that was left of him that _he_ still somehow cared enough not to want that either. Only the moon could tell, now, he supposed. 

He’d have to wait till it stopped raining.

_I know you’re somewhere out there…somewhere far away…_

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to get this out of my head before going to bed, so apologies if it was a bit hard to read. Comments are super appreciated, and if you're up for more angst but with some fluff thrown in, my other fic (probably, hopefully) won't disappoint. Thanks for giving this a read!


End file.
